


Until the Knife at your back feels like Home

by UserImpala67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Depressed Dean, Emotions, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Feels, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Protective Sam Winchester, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, Song Lyrics, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UserImpala67/pseuds/UserImpala67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UP TO SEASON 8 SPOILERS!</p><p>Season 8. <br/>Right after Dean kills Benny to Save Sam<br/>and Bring Bobby back from Hell, and also finds<br/>out Castiel has been under Naomi’s control and<br/>betrayed them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All work and no play makes Dean Winchester a dirty boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Read it with the added bonus of eye-candy here:  
> https://userimpala67.wordpress.com/2015/04/27/until-the-knife-at-your-back-feels-like-home-deancastielspn/

A bead of sweat rolled languidly down Dean Winchesters temple, dragging along his five ‘o’clock shadow, making it’s way past his jaw line, trickling down his neck and pausing briefly in the indent between his collar bones before sneaking its way into his black Led Zeppelin t-shirt adding to the hot, sticky, mess already there, the sodden, cotton material clinging to his muscular torso in such a manner many-a-woman had dreamed of doing.

“Ohhh Baby…” he moaned wistfully. His chest rising and falling rapidly from the exertion, though his strong, practiced hands never faltered from their ministrations. His eyes, gleaming chartreuse in the sunlight took in the sight before him with an experienced twinkle. He wiggled his hips in just the right way so as to position himself closer to his goal.

The eldest Winchester bit his full lower lip, breath catching as he squeezed his fingers, hand closing around the shaft with care before finally pulling it up towards his face with a satisfied growl. “Yes, that’s it! Almost there.” He coaxed “Just a little more-yea-ahhh FUCK!”

With a piercing groan the battered shell of the Impala tilted sideways and slipped part way off the front jacks, half of the drive shaft coming loose and smacking Dean in his chiseled chin. At the same time dislodging the hood and barely missing his fingers, thanks to the momentum of his own fist and the broken part to his face knocking him back on his ass to the gravel covered concrete below.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Son of a Bitch!”

Drawn by the noise, a lanky, tousle-haired brunette came stumbling out of the house rubbing his eyes, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, which, he had. Clad in his signature gray sweats, and nothing else, wielding a sawed-off, shotgun he looked somewhat out of place.

“What in the hell- Dean? Are you alright?” Sam took in the scene before him, concern giving way to amusement. The tallest brother sighed, taking pity him as his undefined blue-hazel eyes met his brother’s cold green ones.

“I’m fine Sam.” came the curt reply. Though it was clear he was anything but. Sam offered a large hand and had it batted away as Dean got to his feet on his own. “Baby hasn’t been this roughed up since…” he seemed to regret speaking and cleared his throat awkwardly.

Sam hesitated before deciding to speak his mind, though it came out tentatively. “Look Dean, I know you like working and all but, all you’ve done is hunt and work on the-on her.” He got no reply other than furrowing of bushy eyebrows as Dean glared at him and then looked away, avoiding his concerned gaze.

“I’m just saying… You’ve been out here working on her since Be-“

“Don’t you say his name Sam.” Dean warned, tone dangerous yet broken. He changed his words and continued lamely, “Since Bobby and everything…”

The younger man shook his head and gave his brother his best puppy dog look, “C’mon, you need to get out.”  
“I am out,” came the snide reply. Dean knew better than to look at his little brother when he used that pleading tone. Unfortunately for him Sam also knew that he knew and quickly slid in front of him, efficiently blocking his path. Before Dean could retaliate his 6’4” ‘baby’ brother ducked his head down so they were eye level wiggling his chestnut eyebrows comically. “Go get a drink, or you know, get laid. Your idea of fun right?”

Pulling a set of keys from his sweats pocket Sam dangled them above his head and grinned. “You can take my car.” There was a pause and then, added coyly, knowing his brother wouldn’t be able to refuse, “For me, Pleeeaasse?” He fixed his brother with his impossibly wide, intense aqua-hazel gaze, feigning innocence and pouting his lips.

Damn him and those pleading, ridiculous puppy eyes. “Oh fine. But just so you know, you act like a friggin’ 5 year old.” Dean gave in, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he turned away, heading towards the house. He didn’t need eyes in the back of his head to know that the brat was sticking his tongue out behind him. “Five year old, Sam!” He hollered over his shoulder.

“Jerk.” Came the humor-filled reply. Refraining from a smirk the eldest hunter lived up to his reputation, calling out the last word. He departed with a matching, affectionate insult “Bitch.” Damn him.

Reaching the porch of the old, rustic, weathered dwelling his strong, jean-clad legs conquered the wooden stairs two at a time, ignoring the cramps in his thighs from crouching over all day. He pulled open the flimsy screen door with practiced ease welcoming the familiarity of the hinges screeching in protest as the beaten frame closed raucously behind him.

He’d never admit it to Sammy, but this would honestly be a welcome reprieve; he hated knowing his little brother was watching after him, as if he needed taking care of. He wasn’t some fragile, doe-eyed kid that needed a damn babysitter. Nor could he stand being observed silently from the windows, or catching Sam’s looks of pity.

Hell, there was always time for beer and girls.


	2. Water into... blood?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shower-time, Dean Winchester style.   
> Throw in some flashbacks and you've got a damn party.

To save time Dean opted out of a shower and instead headed for the kitchen sink, turning the hot water on and barely twisting the cold knob so that the temperature was hot enough steam began to rise from the spray. He poured a generous amount of soap into his palm and began scrubbing his hands, lacing his fingers and working up a nice black-tinted lather, clear evidence of the many layers of grease, oil and dirt caked on his skin. He always took extra care to get underneath his fingernails, and today was no exception.

His nosy, brat of a brother was convinced the dirty-blonde was deficient as far as good hygiene was concerned. Dean on the other hand never missed an opportunity to give his younger sibling shit for the amount of time it took him to get ready. It had to be that lustrous, earthy brown mane of his, those locks that never seemed to lose their shine or volume. No wonder he took over an hour to get ready. What a chick.

Once again a smile began to form at the corners of his mouth just thinking about Sammy’s antics. There was no question the big moose could be a total pain in his ass if he wanted, but the truth was Sam was the only one who had ever been able to make him smile, even in the worst of times, when his own self-hatred seemed to envelope him until he thought he would surely kill himself. His little brother had brought him back from the brink on more than one occasion.

He shook himself back to the task at hand, brushing off the unwanted warmth of feeling. The Led Zeplin shirt [noteably one of his favorites] was removed with one quick motion and he carelessly tossed it onto in the corner of the black-white, checkered kitchen floor before upending a bottle of ocean blue, dawn onto his sweat covered head. His thoughts wandered as he began scrubbing his short, honey-blonde hair.  
The last month he had spent working case after case, always going after the ones that seemed to promise the most danger. He’d gotten lost in hunting things, reveling in the thrill of the chase and enjoying, even craving the kills.  
Diligent hands finished massaging the dish soap into his scalp with his fingertips thoroughly before leaning over the counter edge and placing his head directly under the faucet, enjoying the feel of the hot water washing away the grime, and leaving his hair visibly a shade lighter and smelling pleasantly fresh. Not having the forethought to acquire a clean towel he settled with shaking the water from his hair like a dog, spraying the entire counter and cabinets with the motion.

His stubble-covered face was next, and he started by soaking a dish towel in the warm water, adding a liberal amount of the blue liquid and using it to scrub circular patterns into his skin until the black grease from the impala was all but present and his skin felt raw, but satisfyingly clean.  
He continued by soaping up the entirety of each brawny arm, afterwards taking a second to admire how his naturally golden skin had become a deeper, rich, golden-brown that gave off a sun-kissed glow now that his skin wasn’t covered in grease or dirt.

It had been hot and humid on most of his hunts, and his time spent out under the burning sun was definitely noticeable. His heart began beating a couple beats too quickly, pulse speeding up as he thought of the recent past.  
Dean Winchester had reached down into the sink with both hands to finish rinsing his arms when the flash back came. It froze him, unexpected and so incredibly real. The sink was suddenly awash with thick, freshly spilled blood, dripping heavily off his forearms and running over his torso in tiny rivulets. Dean could feel it spattering his face, and felt a sudden thrill run through his body. Reflexively darting out his tongue, he eagerly longed to taste the still hot, liquid, life-force of his victim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want more? 
> 
> ~Em. Colt


	3. Any Lie You Can Tell I can Tell Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood lust.  
> Brotherly concern.   
> Winchester lie match.  
> Dean heads to the bar, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long to update! Been busy at work and my internet at home crashed! so I'm doing all this at the library -_- 
> 
> Kudos = Faster updates. And comments and constructive criticism are appreciated! 
> 
> Much Love.
> 
> ~Emery Colt

“Dean?” the tentative male voice broke into his revelry, shattering the vivid, morbid imagery as quickly as it had come, slamming him back down to the present abruptly. The intrusion made his lean, shirtless frame go rigid. The faucet was still running and the water had lost its temperature somehow and he had to wonder how long he’d been standing there. It had only seemed like seconds to him. 

The blood-lust had faded but it left him shaky and undeniably wanton. He’d planned on never telling Sam about his newly acquired taste for the blood of those he’d hunted. In truth, he couldn’t even remember what had come over him to even try it in the first place. 

He just remembered the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the satisfaction of seeing life fade from the monsters eyes and his fingers finding their way to his mouth, the rush of supremacy coursing through him, knowing he’d killed the abomination and the taste… like sweet, metallic, liquid power.

Grateful Sam couldn’t see his face, Dean attempted to wet his lips with a dry tongue before closing his mouth as he quickly masked his guilt with a bored look. Shaking off his hands in the sink and turning each knob until the flow ceased to exist he finally turned to face his brother whose tall frame was blocking the kitchen doorway, an uncertain look covering his handsome features. 

“Hey man, you got a towel around here I can use?” Dean asked, giving the younger Winchester a feigned apologetic look for not grabbing his own, acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Sam seemed to be contemplating his question, studying him too intensely for an uncomfortable amount of time.

Dean resisted the urge to squirm under that penetrating blue-green gaze and raised a thick eyebrow. “Earth to Sam?” he joked a little harshly. For the second time that afternoon the brunette cleared his throat uncomfortably before speaking. “Yeah, yeah, sorry, I just…” despite his senses telling him there was something seriously wrong, Sam once again brushed it under the rug for the sake of keeping his brother happy. 

“Just figured you’d be gone by now, that’s all.” He forced a tight smile and padded into the foyer, digging a worn, navy blue towel from the mountain of never folded, clean laundry covering one of the couches. He tossed it to the older man as he reentered the kitchen, watching Dean’s cat-like reflexes snatch the fabric out of the air without even needing to look at it.

Preoccupied with drying his head, neck, torso and arms Dean was unaware of the pensive, calculating look directed at him. “I cannot wait to get out of here and hunt me some tail!” Dean boasted loudly, a shit-eating-grin covering his freshly washed face. Sam groaned, unable to be too worried after a classic Deanism such as that gem of a remark. He found himself shaking his head, unruly, chestnut hair falling into his eyes as he nearly begged “Yeah, yeah. Please spare me the gory details later alright?” The sweats-clad hunter took his leave at that, heading deeper into the house. 

A throaty chuckle left Dean’s lips as he slipped past Sam and grabbed a random button-up flannel from the towering clothes pile. “Oh you know you live vicariously through me little brother!” He called teasingly at the recreating figure. Shrugging the blue-grey plaid shirt over one muscled arm, then the other, pushing the half- sleeves over his defined biceps and rolling them up just above his elbows with practiced ease. 

The shirt was Sam’s, but the brothers had been sharing clothes since middle school. It didn’t matter whose shirt it was. The boys both smelled the same, a mixture of sage and lavender and musk. The smell came unbidden to his senses and he let out a sigh, shoulders relaxing ever-so-slightly at the reassuring familiarity. It was the smell of safety, of Sam, the only home he ever knew. 

Despite their obvious difference in height the boys always managed to maintain the same shirt size. And, as it was in this instance it had been useful many times before. Pulling the car keys from his jeans Dean finally headed for the door.


	4. The Music of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought's are written //like this//.  
> Song lyrics are in "" and italics.
> 
> Finally some Destiel feels!
> 
> The songs in this chapter are by the band MS MR and are titled "Bones" and "Hurricane".
> 
> Comments and Kudos appreciated.
> 
> <3  
> ~Emery Colt

Sam Winchester’s latest car was a newer Dodge that Dean felt more than a little uncomfortable in. The leather squeezed in all the wrong places, the side mirrors wouldn’t turn far enough in, the rear-view mirror was practically worthless thanks to the ridiculously tiny, useless back window, not to mention he felt like he was drowning in the seat. 

Thankfully he managed to get to his destination without totaling the damn thing and took satisfaction in slamming the too shiny door a little harder than necessary, ok, maybe a lot harder. Thick, work worn fingers finished buttoning the flannel up to the last three buttons, exposing the flat panes of his upper chest, but not enough he’d get bitched at for it. Women loved that kind of shit.

The establishment, if you could call it that was a dive bar, on the farthest outskirts of the town over, a dirty, hole in the wall. Just the kind of place Dean liked. No one knew him here and if they did no one cared. He took a stool at the bar and ordered whiskey on the rocks, half-heartedly listening to the music as he waited. A new song had just started, the opening beat dark and slow, a females voice began to sing, though to Dean it sounded as though she were just talking and her voice was so… emotionless, it was beautiful. The first line had him hooked and he tipped his head in thanks without speaking as he was served, not wanting to miss any of the words. 

_“Didn’t know what this would be_  
But I knew I didn’t see  
What you thought you saw in me,” 

The morose sound of the music gave voice to his own feelings and he felt himself begin to slip back into the black despair that had consumed him after Benny’s death. He thought of Sam, still trying to help him, to make him happy.  
//Sam. Why do you still try to fix me? Can’t you see I will always be broken.//

_“I jumped the gun,_  
So sure you’d split and run  
Ready for the worst before the damage was done,” 

He tipped his glass to signal another shot of his chosen poison of the night and continued to brood. 

_“Storm never came,_  
It never was,  
Didn’t know getting lost in the blue,  
It meant I wound up losing you,” 

All the times he’d abandoned Sam to carry out their fathers bidding. He could have lost Sam for good. He almost had. For what? A non-existent pat on the back? Hoping for praise from a man too consumed in himself and his mission to care about anyone. He’d been so stupid. 

_“Welcome to the inner workings of my mind,_  
So dark and foul I can’t disguise,  
Can’t disguise,  
Nights like this,  
I’ve become afraid,  
Of the darkness in my heart,  
Hurricane.” 

The lyrics seemed to be mocking him, pouring straight from his soul and into the speakers. His hands gripped the thrice-emptied glass so tightly it was a miracle it hadn’t shattered. 

He waved for another, not giving a damn about the comings and goings of the patrons. He had become so absorbed in his own anger, pain and guilt that not even the flirty glances from the blonde down the bar got his attention. He slammed back his fourth shot as soon as the glass reached his hand and set it down demanding another and receiving a skeptical look from the bartender though he didn’t refuse to serve him yet. //Try refusing me.// Dean’s mind thought viciously, the alcohol bidding his newly formed hunger for violence to the forefront with ease. 

The rest of the lyrics had been lost to him but he listened to the music end soulfully and pick up seconds later with a catchy piano, drum intro that his foot tapped in time with. The blonde had long since given up on him as a potential source of entertainment for the night.  
Dean noted with a small amount of satisfaction that he was alone in the corner of one side of the bar while the rest of the crowd milled about without bothering him. Drunk girls laughed at stupid jokes and the smell of cigarettes filled the joint as people shot pool or watched their friends do so. Sam would have never let him go out if he knew how much of a loner he was being.

The same feminine voice from the last song took over this tune as well, and again, he felt his insides clench coldly at the words, too close to home. 

_“Dig up her bones_  
But leave the soul alone  
Boy with a broken soul  
Heart with a gaping hole.  
Dark twisted fantasy turned to reality,  
Kissing death and losing my breath.” 

His vision was starting to get blurry, but he blamed it on the smoky room and blinked rapidly, memories, so many memories, he wished he could make them all go away. //Little brother. You would never need saved again. I’m the cause of all your problems. When did you take over my job Sammy? I’m supposed watch over YOU. I’ve failed. Would you, could you forgive me if I made it all go away?//

_"Midnight hours,_  
Cobble street passages,  
Forgotten Savages,  
Forgotten Savages.  
Dig up her bones,  
But leave the soul alone.  
Let her find her way  
To a better place.  
Broken dreams with silent screams  
Empty churches with souless curses,  
We will find a way  
To escape the day." 

Part of his sixth shot missed his lips and dripped down the side of his chin. He wiped it sloppily with the back of his hand, his other reaching into his pocket to absently finger the seductive smoothness of the 9” corleone switchblade hidden there. His thoughts were being controlled by the lyrics that seemed to speak of his life, and they were become fatalistic with every line.

_“Lost in the pages_  
of self made cages  
Life slips away,  
And the ghost comes to play." 

He was smiling, the irony of this moment making his shoulders shake with held back hysterical laughter. Of all the places he thought he might die, never once would he have envisioned a bar. Of course, he’d never have thought it would be by his own hand.  
//Why did it take so long?// he berated himself. He could have done this ages ago and kept Sam from years of this life of living nowhere, always working, always hunting, always on the lookout. Maybe Sam could pursue a real life now, like he always wanted and was denied time after time. Nothing would make Dean happier.

_“These are hard times,_  
These are hard times,  
For Dreamers  
And love-lost believers.” 

As if he needed anymore memories to add to the growing emptiness, he began to hear Benny’s last words playing in his head. His smile, his reassurance that Dean, his friend, his best friend, his ONLY friend since the change, was doing the right thing, that it was ok, that he forgave him. All he could see when he tried to close his eyes was the knife, wielded by his own hand cutting off Benny’s head. 

//Your fault. You killed him. He’s stuck in Purgatory because of you. One more person you’ve failed.//  
Pushing his forgotten glass away from him, Dean pulled out some cash and slapped it down on the bar, taking a deep breath to steel his nerves and regretting it as he inhaled a lung-ful of chemicals and nicotine. 

_“Dig up her bones,_  
But leave the soul alone,  
Let her find a way to a better place.” 

The bar stool made a loud, protesting noise as he got up unsteadily and moved it backwards with his hip. The dark, finality of his decision was all he could think of, and it kept him from noticing the stranger approach until a heavy hand was brought down on his shoulder and the person tried turning him around.  
Unprepared and already having trouble with his legs, Dean found himself tripping on his own foot as he was turned, and falling into the slightly shorter patron. His hands came up to stop them from colliding and found purchase on a pair of solid shoulders as the dark-haired man also kept him from colliding with his chest by effortlessly holding Dean up by his elbows.

The strangers face came into focus with difficulty and instead of getting mad like he’d been planning, his eyes widened with recognition. He wrenched himself away with mixed emotions, anger, betrayal, pain… and the least welcome of them, a small spark of hope.  
Before him, clad in his signature tan trench coat, black dress jeans, a white button up that seemed like it had seen better days, and that ridiculous blue tie, that he didn’t have to see to know was backwards was last person he’d thought he would ever see again. Well, not person per-se.

“Cas?” His voice betrayed him and came out as a strangled whisper as his heart skipped a beat in his chest and he met the lightning blue gaze of Castiel, Angel of the Lord.


	5. Caution: Watch for Moose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel tries saving Dean, tries apologizing, but they are interrupted by protective Sam.

"We need to talk." Castiel said, his voice full of sadness.

“Great. The God squad.” Dean spat, covering his guilty, knowing Cas had probably heard his suicidal thoughts. He shrugged the older man’s hand from his shoulder and pushed past him, heading straight for the exit. The confusion on the angels face gave him a second’s satisfaction before it was replaced with a look of determination. Castiel moved deftly in front of the exit and put a steady hand on the Winchesters chest. 

“Dean. I need to talk to you.” Dean slid away from the touch and burst through the back door as if his life depended on it. 

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I haven’t even told you what it’s about.”

“I don’t care Cas!” strong but shaky hands gripped Castiel’s trench coat tightly and pinned him to the damp side of the bar wall.

“I don’t want to hear anymore lies! I don’t- I can’t trust you!”

Piercing Green eyes full of anger, pain, regret, loss and confusion met Castiel’s shocked electric blue gaze.   
All that pain. The rage. The blame. The angel raised his hand to wipe away the tears threatening to fall from those eyes so full of despair.  
The movement brought Dean’s walls back and he turned away, releasing his grip and stumbling blindly towards Sam’s car.   
“Just go, Cas.”  
Castiel appeared in front of him with a flutter of wings.  
“Damn Angels!” he cursed and tried veering around the dark haired man, only ending up tripping himself and landing right in Castiel’s waiting arms.   
He felt Castiel pull him close, too close for his own comfort and he struggled away from that heavenly warmth only to find himself in his room back at the bunker.   
“What the hell. I had a car!”  
Castiel gave him a calculating look.   
“You’re drunk.”  
Dean narrowed his eyes and clenched his fist, “I am not drunk.”  
“You’re intoxicated enough that driving is not advised.” The angel made it sound as if he were reading from a goddamn text book.  
“You could have called Sam.” Dean’s head was beginning to hurt, and not from the booze.  
“I did. He should be picking up his car about now.” Castiel countered.  
“Well great. Now you can go.”   
The dirty blonde held open his door with a pasted smile, he didn’t want to admit he’d dreamed of this, not like this though, and that was before Castiel spied on him and Sammy before he took the tablet, to “protect it from HIM”. This was all wrong.

“I need you to be in a better state of mind when I talk to you.”  
“I’m not drunk alright and I don’t want to talk to you! You’d have a better chance talking to me if I was drunk! Because right now I just want to punch you.”   
Dean bit his lip to keep himself from doing just that. 

Castiel frowned, “Would that make you feel better?” he asked, completely serious.  
It caught Dean off guard, “Yes. What?! No. Goddamnit CAS! What the hell do you want?!”   
He let out a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding and slumped against the door frame, bringing his hands up to his face, burying his head in them, lest his eyes betray him again, he already felt the tears forming. “What more do you want from me?”

 

Castiel's throat tightened and his lips parted but made no sound.   
He couldn't trust his voice. Instead he took three cautious steps towards the man he'd defied all of Heaven for.   
The brother of the Anti-Christ. The snarky, smug, take-on-the-world, ready for anything Winchester that he had come to dare he say... love?   
The first human he had completely trusted. The human who had changed his view on everything he had ever known.   
Who taught him what it was to FEEL.   
To laugh. How to have fun.   
How to think for himself.   
The ONE being who believed in him even when no one else would, when he didn't deserve it.   
He owed this man so much. 

He approached Dean as if he were a wounded animal, ever so slowly reaching out to place his fingers against the back of one of the scarred hands covering the younger man’s face.   
He felt Dean flinch and his heart nearly broke in his chest as an anguished, wounded sound found it’s way past Dean’s lips.   
Castiel found hope in the fact that he had not pulled away from the contact other than his initial flinch, and began moving his fingertips, sliding cautiously along tanned knuckles and slipping them in-between those of one impossibly strong hand.   
He followed suit with his other hand, pulling both of Dean’s to his own chest, cradling them there compassionately.   
Their skin coming together was like Fire and Ice, Feathers and Sandpaper, Castiel’s hands soft and cool against Dean’s feverish, work worn ones.  
He was shocked to find a pair of impossibly wide-open green eyes behind those hands.   
He’d expected Dean to be hiding still, eyes shut, closing him out.   
Hot, glittering tears welled up in those emerald pools, long, beautiful lashes holding them at bay as they threatened to spill down his perfect, feminine yet so masculine face.

More of a shock was the raw, vulnerability Castiel saw in those eyes.   
He suddenly got a glimpse of the still 10 year old boy, forced to become a man so young, still seeking his father’s approval, still on a mission to prove his worth, still the boy who valued his brother more than life itself.  
With a start Castiel realized this was the first time he’d ever seen Dean truly vulnerable. 

Dean stared into an ocean of blue.   
Every color of blue you could ever imagine, all put together to form layers upon layers of the sea, the stars, the sky, an abyss of brilliant color, so bright, so deep, so easy to get lost in.  
His hands felt like they were on fire and Castiel was the cool snow easing his flames.   
Castiel was magnetic; his gaze electric, everything about him screamed “Trust me.”

It was that thought that brought him careening back to his senses for the second time that night.   
It was like a switch flipped and he shoved his feelings back into the deepest, darkest part of himself, slamming the doors behind them. He pulled his hands from Castiel’s grip, the loss of the touch like a knife severing part of his soul. 

//Do I still have a soul?// The thought was as fleeting as it had come.

“Dean, wait-" A large, firm hand clamped down on the Angels trench-coat covered shoulder, spinning him around and his eyes traveled up the body in front of him to meet a pair of hazel eyes, half covered by an unruly wave of dark chestnut hair. Sam.

“You should go.” His voice was just as dark as his normally bright hazel eyes.   
The youngest Winchester stepped protectively in front of his brother.   
As if he needed to protect Dean.  
An image of his own fist, gripping the angel blade, coming down again and again on that perfect, now bloody, nearly un-recognizable face made Castiel cringe. 

Unaware of the internal flashback Sam took his posture as a sign of acquiescence and pushed him non-too-gently towards the open door. 

“Sam-"

“I wasn’t asking Castiel.”

With a curt nod Castiel turned, speaking quietly over his shoulder.   
“I just want you… both of you to know, if you need me, for anything, just call. I am in control of myself now. Naomi has no hold.” 

“Haven’t you done enough?” Sam’s voice was shaking and the question hit him like a blow.   
“Alright. Easy Sammy.” Dean had long since dried his eyes, erasing any trace of him feeling.   
Taking control of the situation, like always.   
He hadn’t seen Sam this shook up since that never-ending Tuesday so long ago where his little brother watched him die, day after day, after day.   
Sam's voice was hard,   
“No Dean. Cas, Goodbye.”


	6. Angel's know best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's short yes I know, but there weren't many comments or kudos so I've been writing my other stories. The next chapter will be lengthy and include much needed fluff. 
> 
> ~Emery

“I know you can hear me Castiel.” Sam Winchester sat in his room, bed still made, covers untouched. 

He sat at his desk, laptop pushed aside, forgotten for the moment.  His large hands formed a steeple on the table in front of him as he spoke to the Angel he knew was listening.

“You need to leave my brother alone.  Do you understand?  After what you did, after all we’ve been through, and after Benny…” the young hunter sighed, shaking his head and running a hand through his messy oak brown hair.

“He doesn’t need any more shit ok? He doesn’t need you letting him down.” Sam closed his eyes wearily, resting his head in his hands. When he looked up his heart skipped a beat, reflexes telling him to go for his gun.

“Fuck! Cas! You can’t do that!” he stood angrily, “What did I just say?! I said you can’t be here!”

“Please wait Sam-“ the Angel held up his hands submissively,

“No Cas-“

“Sam, please I need to tell you-“ Castiel tried to speak but was cut off yet again as the very tall young man grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking his head and pushing him towards the bedroom door.

“No Cas. I don’t want to hear your apologies or whatever.”

“SAM.” The dark haired angel stubbornly planted his feet into the ground and pushed his friends hands off of him.

“No Cas-“

“DEAN WAS GOING TO KILL HIMSELF.”

“I don’t care-Wait-what?” Sam took two steps back and finally looked at the man who’d once been his friend. Those ice blue eyes were so full of sorrow and truth.  He felt as if he’d been shot.  Staggering back until his knees hit the bed the giant man sat, shoulders hunched, face in his hands, looking for all the world as if he’d been defeated.  “Dean wouldn’t.” his words were mere whispers from his lips.

“He thinks you’re better off without him.  He blames himself for everything.”

Castiel sat in the vacated chair at the desk, wishing he hadn’t told the youngest Winchester, but knowing there was no other way to convince him that Dean might need Him.

“I need to go talk to him.” Sam stood abruptly and headed towards the door, it was Cas’ turn to jump up and block his path.  “No. No Sam. I didn’t tell you so you could go talk to him.  You know he’d be furious if I told you.  He’d feel even guiltier.  Please Sam let me talk to him. Please I need to.” The desperation in his voice and the sincerity in his eyes made the hazel eyed Winchester want to trust him again and damnit he was right, the last thing Sam wanted was for Dean to feel guilty.  It would also backfire on Cas as seeming untrustworthy with such a secret. 

Grudgingly the lanky brunette padded back to his bed, throwing his large frame unceremoniously on top of it, not bothering to change his clothes or remove his shoes.  Too many motel’s slept in with full gear, it was a hard habit to break. 

“Fine.” Sam grumbled.

“But do it like a normal person.  Come through the front door, and at a decent hour. Alright?”

Not hearing the flutter of wings that usually followed Castiel’s coming and going he lifted his head to find the Angel still standing by the door, a confused expression on his face. 

“What’s a decent hour?”

Sam rolled his eyes and flopped back down, unable to contain a laugh at the Angel’s absolute cluelessness.

“After 10 AM ok? Go on Cas. Go sleep or something.” Castiel nodded and before he disappeared Sam could hear a heartfelt,

“Thank you Sam Winchester.” And the last thought in Sam’s mind before he drifted off to sleep was that Cas should bring Dean some Pie. 

And of course, Castiel heard.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! ;]
> 
> ~Em. Colt


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